


Picnicking in Pyjamas

by wordybirdy



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Friendship/Love, Gen, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-15
Updated: 2011-08-15
Packaged: 2017-10-22 15:28:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/239536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordybirdy/pseuds/wordybirdy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's a special day, but Holmes shows a marked reluctance to celebrate.  Mycroft indulges, and Watson wonders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picnicking in Pyjamas

“It is a very pleasant morning, wouldn't you agree, Holmes?”

I made this address to my friend across the breakfast table as we sat; he with his cup of coffee and the early edition newspaper, and me with my ham and eggs and the sash window to one side of me. Holmes grunted non-committally.

“If you say so, Watson. It is January, and it is cold, and there is barely enough light at this time of day for me to see my hand in front of my face.”

“Well, I cannot see what pleasure that might possibly bring you, Holmes,” said I, upbeat, although my friend was yet rolling his eyes and heading back inside his paper.

“Do you know what day it is today?” I persisted.

“It is a Wednesday,” replied Holmes, his nose buried within the agony columns. “Obviously.”

“It is much more than that, Holmes,” I said.

“I do not follow you,” he said, lowering the paper for one moment to eye me severely. “Is it my turn to carry out the dustbin?”

“No,” I sighed. “Holmes, what is today's date, can you tell me?”

Holmes tutted in exasperation and flicked back to the front page of The Times. “It is the 6th,” said he, irritably. He looked at me, then, and noted the upward curl of my lip, the glint in my eye. “Oh.” Then: “Oh, God. No. Watson.”

I beamed at my friend. “Happy Birthday, my very dear fellow.”

Holmes groaned. It was a prolonged, guttural growl of unending torment.

I patted his hand. “I know, Holmes. It comes so soon after Christmas and the New Year, and you are thinking of your childhood with its miserable history of “joint” presents. I know, my dear boy. But that is no longer the case. For I have planned something very--”

“ _NO!_ ” Holmes leaped from his chair. If our window had been open at that precise moment then I would not have been at all astonished if he had catapulted himself out of it. As it was, he grasped at the sill for support, wild-eyed and rapt upon me. “No, oh Watson! Please do not tell me that you have _planned something_?”

“Holmes,” I said, alarmed, “please calm yourself and sit down. It is but a folly. You will enjoy it. I might even go so far as to say that you will treasure the memory of it for a considerable time to come.”

Holmes slumped back into his chair. He clutched at his head with both hands and tore at the roots of his hair. His feet stamped impotently beneath the table. I was beginning to fear that his fit of pique might yet develop into a full-blown temper tantrum when he froze, and peered at me from underneath his heavy brow; from those piercing, searching, unequivocally intelligent grey eyes.

“Don't _want_ to. NoNo _No_. Don't want to,” he said, blinking very rapidly.

“Holmes,” I sighed patiently, “you don't even know what it is yet.”

He paused, and appeared to consider the statement.

“What is it?” he asked. I noticed that his right eye had edged surreptitiously towards the door of our sitting-room as though planning its escape route. His left eye remained fixed innocently upon me. I had to admire the skill of it.

“It is a picnic luncheon with your dear brother Mycroft and myself,” I said, calmly and deliberately. I awaited my friend's reaction. There was a short respite while Holmes digested the information.

“A... picnic?”

“Yes, Holmes.”

“With _Mycroft_?”

“Yes, Holmes. And me.”

Holmes renewed the torturing of his hair roots. “Watson, it is _January_. Only a Bedlamite would venture out on a picnic in the very depths of Winter. And when exactly did you chance upon brother Mycroft to broach this ridiculous proposal? You did not mention it to me.”

“Naturally I did not mention it, Holmes, because it was your birthday surprise,” I explained. “And I thought that it would be a nice idea to partake of our picnic at the Crystal Fortress. They have such a lovely covered garden area there, it should be quite warm, and secluded.”

I waited patiently while Holmes employed his mental grapnel to hook back together the shattered fragments of his composure. He lit a cigarette and sucked at it furiously. His eyes flickered distractedly from the mantelpiece to his chemistry table, and back to the window.

“You must know, do you not, Watson, that there is an excellent reason as to why Mycroft and I do not maintain regular contact with one another?”

I frowned in concentration. “Well, it is because he spends so very much of his time at his Diogenes Club and does not care for company, little more for exercise, or, um..? Er, he is a busy man?”

Holmes sighed, flicking cigarette ash some distance and missing the ashtray entirely. “Mycroft is my elder by seven years. You are aware of this, Watson. He assumes himself to be my superior in every regard, and has done so since we were children. He was always the favourite. He gives utterly wretched birthday gifts. He cannot abide picnics. Watson, this luncheon will be a _disaster_ , my boy. You must cancel it immediately.”

“I fear that I cannot, Holmes, for I understand Mycroft to be away from his Club and attending to business up until the hour of our meeting.”

“Then I am going back to bed,” announced Holmes. He stubbed out his cigarette with an air of finality and charged towards his bedroom door. I followed a few steps behind him, cursing.

“I don't like surprises,” explained the muffled mound from underneath the bedclothes. “And I like brother Mycroft even less.”

I rubbed the only part of Holmes which remained accessible to me: an ankle, still encased in sock and shoe. A tuft of black hair edged out curiously and briefly at the opposite end of the bed, before darting turtle-like back into the safety of cotton once more.

“It will only be for an hour or two, Holmes,” I said, a little regretful now. “I do apologise for putting you in this position, I was not aware that you would take it so extremely. I believe that Mrs. Hudson is preparing cucumber sandwiches,” I added. “You like those.”

I heard a mumble from somewhere beneath the sheets. Encouraged, I continued.

“With sausages, and hard-boiled eggs, and cold sliced meats, and I do believe a sponge cake, Holmes.”

Another mumble, this one somewhat questioning. I smiled warmly at the bump in the bed. “Does that sound good?”

The black tuft emerged and raised itself up to look at me. “It does not matter particularly to me,” said Holmes, “but Mycroft is rather used to more elaborate fare than that. I wonder that he would not bring a hamper of his own with him... And you've stopped rubbing my ankle,” he added, petulantly.

“You are not a cocker spaniel, Holmes,” I retorted, standing up from the end of the bed and shaking my head. “It will be all right. I will keep Mycroft busy in conversation; you may do as you wish, so long as you remain in the vicinity and do not wander off or misbehave.”

And so it was, then, that I quelled the storm, if only temporarily. Holmes remained within his room -- sulking, I supposed -- as I whiled away the remainder of the morning with sundry paperwork and reading. Upon the midday chime of the clock upon the mantelpiece I heard the doorbell ring below. Punctuality was ever one of Mycroft Holmes's virtues.

“Doctor Watson, good afternoon to you,” said the imposing figure stood now upon our threshold. “I do hope that I am neither too early or too late.” The figure entered the room without waiting for reply. It sat down upon the sofa without removing its coat, sighed deeply and looked around the room. “Where is Sherlock?”

Mycroft Holmes was almost as broad as he was tall – and he was very tall. His hair was only just beginning to thin, yet it was as raven as his younger brother's. His eyes were the same intense grey, his features quite as prominent and impressive. He carried all of Sherlock Holmes's authority, and as much if not more of the genius, but little or none of my friend's warmth, his eccentricity, his vitality.

“Holmes is in his bedroom,” I explained, “I will see if he is ready.”

Mycroft grunted; I did not make any attempt at a translation. I walked to the bedroom door, tapped gently, and entered the room. I was much dismayed to observe that the bump beneath the bedclothes had apparently remained static since last I had seen it. I hurried to the side and hissed down at it.

“Holmes! What on earth do you think you are playing at? Mycroft is here, it is time for our picnic.”

I whisked the covers away from the bed. Holmes reflexively curled tighter into a ball in the middle. I observed, resignedly, that he had changed back into his pyjamas. He glared up at me.

“I am ill,” said he. “I have a temperature, a sore throat and a bruised knee. I find that it would be both impossible and unwise for me to venture out of doors or indeed walk anywhere today.”

I yanked at Holmes's pyjama leg cuffs. “Which knee? Where is the bruise?”

He squirmed away, whining. “I cannot remember.”

“I can see no bruising. That was an outright lie.”

“It was not,” he replied, crossly. “I am unwell.” He coughed.

I clamped my hand to his forehead. “You have no temperature. Holmes, get out of bed immediately and put some clothes on; that is an order. You are worse than a three-year-old,” I added.

I rejoined Mycroft in the sitting-room.

“Your... landlady... brought up the...” Mycroft gestured vaguely at the picnic hamper upon the sideboard. “Where is Sherlock?”

“He will be here in a minute,” I replied firmly and loudly enough for my friend to hear from the adjacent room. “He does not particularly enjoy birthdays, does he?”

“No,” said Mycroft, “he does not. He has always been quite impossible upon the subject of them. I suppose that he has been complaining of a fever, or of a pain in an unfathomable location?”

I laughed out loud. I would have replied, but for Holmes's bedroom door swinging open at that precise moment and that room's occupant joining us with no small amount of ill grace.

“Here I am. I am here. Whoopee,” said Holmes, flatly. He was wearing his purple dressing gown. I could not see what was layered beneath it, but I strongly suspected it to still be the pair of wretched pyjamas. He was barefoot. He sat down in his chair by the fire, and shivered dramatically. “Mycroft,” he said with a nod, but then appeared to run out of any accompanying vernacular.

“You are half-naked, Sherlock.” Mycroft cast a disapproving appraisal over his younger brother. “I fear that you may encourage the incredulity of the general London populace if you venture out onto the streets in that extraordinary costume.”

“I do not intend to venture out,” Holmes replied, scowling. “I intend on staying here, where it is warm and where there are as few things as possible to vex me. Your presence notwithstanding,” he added pointedly.

“Very well, then,” said Mycroft, “I suppose that we shall be having the picnic here on the sitting-room floor. Do you object, Doctor?”

“I suppose not,” I replied. “It would seem to be about the best we might be able to manage, all things considered.”

And so we presented our strange little indoor picnic. Mycroft spread the white tablecloth out upon the rug, where I laid upon it the contents of Mrs. Hudson's meticulously stuffed hamper. There was sufficient to feed a party of six. Mycroft feigned indifference to little avail, for his stomach was as eloquent as his tongue. I suppose we must have made a bizarre spectacle, the three of us sat upon the floor, cross-legged and slouched in front of the blazing fire. The wine flowed freely; the hamper was really very excellent. Holmes's mood improved visibly as he sipped from a well-filled glass of white Burgundy and nibbled delicately at a cucumber sandwich. Our conversation dwelled on no topic to the extent that my friend might become peevish. Mycroft was sage and willing enough to pose a question regarding Sarasate's bowing technique, and his younger brother could not contain himself across a ten minute rhapsody of dissection and praise.

“Do help yourself to another egg, Mycroft,” I said, encouragingly.

“Never mind ' _another-egg-Mycroft_ ',” said Holmes, his mouth full of sausage. “Where are my presents?” He leaned back, and nudged my right leg with his bare foot. “I want presents now.”

Mycroft hummed indulgently. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed delicately at his lips, and wiped his fingers. He reached into an inner pocket of his waistcoat, and brought forth a small, exquisitely wrapped packet, which he proffered to my friend. Holmes snatched at it; regarded it suspiciously.

“Thank you,” he said. “I am fervently hoping that it is not a 5 year membership to The Diogenes.”

“No, Sherlock, it is not that. We do not give those out to just anyone, as you are quite well aware.”

“Is it a gold watch-chain?”  
“No.”  
“A signet ring with amethyst?”  
“ _No_.”  
“The shrunken skull of a pygmy from the remote island tribe of the Militant Candiru?”

“Sherlock, will you _please_ just open the packet?”

Holmes picked at the pink ribbon and untied the elaborate knot. He peeled off the floral green wrapping, then paused a moment before tentatively lifting the lid of the box within. I craned my neck to peer over his shoulder.

“What is it?” Holmes asked, frowning. He removed the object from the box and held it out before him as though it were a dead frog or a test tube containing some deadly poison. I could see that it was silver, and in the shape of a small bird.

“It is a pen wiper, Sherlock. Its left wing is hinged. Lift it. There. See?”

“Yes,” said Holmes, “I see.” I elbowed him. “Thank you, Mycroft,” he managed.

“I thought you might appreciate a useful gift, rather than the usual nonsense you acquire and fill your rooms and cupboards with,” said Mycroft. “If you were under the impression that I might somehow be adding to your appalling collection of Persian slippers, then you would regrettably be very much mistaken.”

“So it would seem,” replied Holmes. “When are you leaving?”

“Apparently now,” said Mycroft, gripping the edge of the sofa and hauling himself to his feet. He brushed the crumbs from his silk waistcoat and straightened his tie. He picked up his coat and laid it across one arm. “It is just as well, as I have an appointment very shortly with my furrier. Enjoy the rest of your birthday, Sherlock. Thank you for the picnic, Doctor, which was very pleasant even though it did not manage to progress beyond the door of this sitting-room.”

I shook Mycroft Holmes's hand, and opened the door for him. His steps echoed away down into the hall before I turned back into the room.

“Thank heavens he has gone,” said Holmes, still sprawled upon the rug. “I was beginning to believe that he might eat his way through the tablecloth and down to the floorboards.”

“You are absolutely impossible,” I informed my friend. I lowered myself down beside him once more. “Mycroft made an effort today, Holmes.”

Holmes remained silent; indeed, he appeared to be deep in thought.

“I don't like my pen wiper,” he said, finally.

“And yet the thought behind it was a kind one,” I said. Holmes's foot had insinuated itself beside me, gradually and unnoticed. I rubbed at it absently; Holmes sighed. He peered at me from the corner of one eye.

“What did you get me?” he asked, tentatively.

I reached beneath the sofa and pulled out a package.

“It is not as charmingly wrapped as Mycroft's,” I said, “but I hope that you will like the content better.”

Holmes unwrapped it slowly. He opened the box and lifted out the elegant cherrywood pipe with an amber stem, which I had taken much time and care in selecting the previous week.

“There is a fly in the amber,” said he, quietly delighted. “It is a wonderful gift. I treasure it already. Thank you, John.”

“You are very welcome, my dear fellow,” I said, softly. “Happy Birthday to you.”

And there we remained by the fire for quite a good while longer, and we did not speak, or feel the need to draw the curtains as the light outside dimmed, and filled the room with gentle shadows.


End file.
